Captain Paul. Alexandre Dumas

and quickness quite delightful to behold. You will now comprehend that I did not deceive you in what I said, and that our collection is complete.”

      “But,” asked Emanuel, who had listened to this long enumeration with a certain degree of interest, “how does your captain manage to make himself understood by men brought together from such distant nations?”

      “First of all our captain understands all languages—and although in battle and during stormy weather he speaks his mother tongue, he; gives such an accent to it that every one understands him and obeys: him. But see, the larboard cabin door is opening, and I doubt not he is ready to-receive you.”

      And instantly a boy dressed in a midshipman’s uniform came up to the two officers, and asked Emanuel if he did not call himself the Count d’Auray; and on his receiving an affirmative reply, he requested him to follow him; and the officer who had so conscientiously sustained the part of a cicerone, immediately went on deck to resume his duties there. As to Emanuel, he advanced towards the cabin with a mixed feeling of anxiety and curiosity, He was at last about to be ushered in the presence of Captain Paul.

      He was a man who appeared to be between fifty and fifty-five years of age, and to whom the habit of walking between decks had given him a stoop rather than age. He wore the uniform of the French navy, accord-ing to its strictest regulations. It was a blue coat with scarlet facings, a red waistcoat, and breeches of the same color, grey stockings, with frilled shirt and’ ruffles. His hair, rolled up in large curls, and powdered quite white, was tied into a queue by a ribbon, the ends of which floated upon his shoulders. His cocked hat and his sword were lying upon a table beside him. At the moment Emanuel entered the door, he was sitting upon the carriage of a gun, but when he perceived him, he rose up to receive him.

      The young count felt intimidated by the aspect of this man: there was in his eye a searching look which appeared to peer into the very soul of the person whom he gazed upon. Perhaps, also, this impression was the more powerful, that he presented himself before him with a conscience that reproached him with the act he was endeavouring to accomplish, and of which he was about to render the captain, if not an accomplice, at all events the executioner. These two men, as though they felt a secret repulsion, the one towards the other, saluted each other with politeness, but with cold reserve.

      “It is the Count d’Auray that I have the honor of addressing,” said the old officer.

      “And I Captain Paul, I believe,” replied the young mousquetaire; they both bowed a second time.

      “May I know to what fortunate chance I owe the honor,” rejoined the captain, “of the visit which is now paid to me by the heir of one of the oldest and greatest families in Brittany?”

      Emanuel bowed again by way of thanks for this compliment, and then, after hesitating for a moment as if he found it difficult to open the conversation, he observed: “I am told, Captain Paul, that you are bound to the Gulf of Mexico?”

      “And you have not been deceived, sir; I purpose sailing for New Orleans, calling on my way at Cayenne, and at the Havannah.”

      “This falls out very fortunately, captain, and you will not have to alter your course, in case you should be willing to undertake the execution of the order of which I am the bearer.”

      “You have an order to communicate to me, sir, and from whom?”

      “From the Minister of Marine.”

      “An order addressed to me personally?” reiterated the captain, doubtingly.

      “Not personally to you, sir; but to any captain of the royal navy, who may be about to sail for South America.”

      “Of what nature is it, count?”

      “A state prisoner to be transported to Cayenne.”

      “And you have the order with you?”

      “Here it is,” replied Emanuel, taking it from his pocket, and presenting it to the captain.

      He took the paper, and going near the cabin window, that he might avail himself of the last gleam of daylight, he read aloud:

      “The Ministers of Marine and of the Colonies, orders any captain or lieutenant, commanding a government vessel, who may be about to sail for South America, or for the Gulf of Mexico, to take on board his ship and to land at Cayenne, the person named Lusignan, condemned to transportation for life. During the passage the convict shall take his meals in his own cabin, and shall not be allowed to have any communication with the ship’s company.”

      “Is the order in due form?” asked Emanuel.

      “Perfectly, sir,” replied the captain. “And are you disposed to execute it?”

      “Am I not under the orders of the Minister of Marine?”

      “The prisoner may then be sent to you?”

      “Whenever you will; but it had better be this evening, or as soon as possible, as I do not expect to be long in these roads.”

      “I will take care that due diligence shall be used.”

      “Is this all that you have to say to me?”

      “Nothing further, excepting to add my thanks.”

      “Do not add anything, sir. The minister orders, and I obey, that’s all. It is a duty which I fulfil, and not a service that I am rendering.”

      Upon these words, the captain and the count bowed to each other and separated, more coldly even than they had met.

      When he reached the deck, Emanuel asked the officer of the watch for his friend who had accompanied him on board, but was informed he had been detained by Captain Paul to sup with him, and that being anxious to oblige the count, he had placed his boat as his disposal.

      She was waiting alongside the ship, and the sailors were in readiness to accompany him. Emanuel had scarcely got into her when they rowed him away with a rapidity equal to that with which they had conducted him on board. But this time she proceeded in sorrowful silence, for the young lieutenant was no longer there to animate the count with his practical philosophy.

      That same night the prisoner was conducted on board the Indienne, and the next morning at day-break the inquisitive inhabitants of the coast no longer discerned the frigate which had given rise to so many conjectures, and whose unexpected arrival, her remaining there without any apparent object, and her spontaneous departure, remained an inexplicable mystery to the inhabitants of Fort Louis.